Of Snowflakes and Bluebirds
by MissRevolutionary
Summary: In an Alternate Universe where our gang have averted the apocalypse and lived to tell the tale, everyone is bored out of their minds.  Spike attempts to occupy himself by matchmaking.  IllyriaWesley


**Author's Note:** So basically, I wanted to write a funny Illyria/Wesley story. I'm in the middle of an angsty one, and I wanted a break. But in turns out I can't write an Illyria/Wesley story that isn't AU, and isn't angsty, so I got this. Imagine that our gang survived the apocalypse, saved the world (don't ask how, just go with the flow please, I know I don't explain anything and I'm very sorry), and now have absolutely nothing productive to do with themselves. Hopefully, this is one of several in a series of Oneshots where Spike gets to play matchmaker, but don't hold me to it. By the way, it's Spike's POV, and Illyria may or may not be out of character, I just think that this how she would act, at least around Spike, after knowing him for about a year. I also think that someone who sees herself as so cool, and Illyria definitely does, would be this frustrated by Wesley's lack of interest.

That said, the characters from Angel are not mine. Also, there's already been a fanfic around here featuring Illyria not understanding Valentine's Day. They're quite different of course, but I'd like to mention it. I don't remember the title or the author, but if you see it, it's very good, and quite funny. There's also a purposeful nod in here to the great Dr. House. A cookie for the person who notes it, though it shouldn't be that hard. By the by, Martha Stewart and her cookbooks aren't mine either. Obviously.

I'm sure it's awful to be dusted, or beheaded, or lit on fire. I'm sure that any end put to my undeath would've been dreadful. I am sure Angel would feel the same way, and I'm sure that Wesley and Gunn (less so Wesley, of course) would have deeply resented having to die. I'm sure that Lorne does not wish to be hacked to pieces in the name of humanity, and I _know_ that Illyria, if it is possible for her to truly die, would not have enjoyed it in the slightest.

I know all those things, but I am also quite certain that none of us would have tried so hard to prevent the end of the world if we'd known it would be like this.

I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to do, and everybody seems to be going out of their way to make me feel as though I'm the only one. Gunn's admitted to boredom, but even he thought it funny to tell me that he was perfectly happy to spend the rest of his life helping Wes organize the bookshelves in his new store. Just as Wes clearly enjoys, as much as he ever enjoys anything since he failed the final task he'd set himself and survived the final battle, telling me that _he_ was perfectly happy to spend the rest of his life _making_ Gunn and the now royally purposeless Angel (he, feeling even more unnecessary than any of us, and by the way still not human, had devoted himself to being Wesley's porter with spectacular zeal) organize bookshelves.

The truth was, the only useful thing any of us had to do these days was Wesley's bidding. As far as I could see Wes got around just fine, but since he was the only one of us with a war wound, that made everyone else his personal slave for the rest of their natural lives, however long that might be. I also knew that Wes got a certain sadistic pleasure when, while hobbling around a park somewhere, he trampled someone's foot and _they_, finding his cane bound and crippled, apologized hurriedly.

Mandatory servitude aside, I was spending my time learning new, useless skills. I've become so good at throwing a small rubber ball at the ceiling and catching it again that it's become a natural extremity.

However, on one particular day, I was bored out of my wits. I'd already called Wes, and, upon answering the phone, he had said the same thing he'd said for five weeks straight. "Spike-" patiently- "I'm going to hang up the phone in a few moments. You have two options. Either you are going to find a way to amuse yourself- might I suggest reading a book?- or you are going to come over here, and I am going to hit you. With my cane. Are we clear? Goodbye." And he would hang up.

Only once had I taken Wes up on his offer to come to his store and be beaten. He did hit me, hard, and for reasons beyond my own imagining I was not expecting it, and therefore fell, bruised my shins, and hit my head. This supplied us with more entertainment then we'd had in months. Wes because he'd done violence, to my person, Gunn and Angel because they'd got to watch me sprawled out on the floor, and me because I was in pain for the first time a long while. A hell of a lot of pain.

This, though, was not that day. This day, I was even considering listening to Wes and reading something. Frightened by this change, I decided to visit the one person I knew had to be as at a loss as I was.

It wasn't a far drive, and we'd managed to nick of few of Wolfram and Hart's special cars before we left. This one was technically Angel's, but apparently Wes had ordered a last minute remodel, so nobody was, you know, using it. Gunn had commented that Wes more of a Nazi than usual today, and I was about to find out why.

Reaching Fred's apartment, into which Illyria had moved a little while ago, the first thing I noticed was the change in décor, or whether the total lack of it. The furniture had been pushed up against the walls, which were bare.

Okay, sorry, that isn't right. That was the second thing I noticed. The first was the smell. Something was definitely burning in this apartment.

"Illyria?" I called out hesitantly.

An answer came from the kitchen. "Spike?" I followed Illyria's voice, and found a sizable kitchen with food all over the counter, dishes piled high in the sink, four meals boiling in pots on the stove, and, the crowning achievement, a pan with something which might have once been alive lying on the floor at Illyria's feet, flaming impressively.

Illyria was gazing down at the pan with a mix of displeasure and fascination. I looked her over, and realized she looked different than usual.

When we had left Wolfram and Hart Illyria had found that she was going to have to walk among humans, in the actual world. She had decided to make herself appear more human, but she had made herself look as little like Fred as possible, probably in an effort to please Wesley. She kept her hair dark and very straight, and wore it in a French roll. Her eyes were icy blue, but no longer unnatural looking, and her skin was still pale but no longer tinged with the blue I had based her nickname on. I still called her Blue, and Lorne still called her Bluebird, but it made little sense anymore.

Illyria had also found that she disliked Fred's choice of skirts and feminine tops, and Angel, in his efforts to feel useful again, had eagerly volunteered to take her shopping. That had turned into an outing for the whole group, and even Lorne had tagged along, though _he _seemed quite happy to be able to return to the nice, nonviolent life that had come before Angel. Illyria, amazed and disconcerted by the sight of a department store had (not without ulterior motives, of course) asked Wesley to chose her new clothes for her. Though his eyes and no doubt mind had drifted in other directions, Wes had picked out a set of virtually identical pairs of blue jeans and a bunch of conservative black shirts.

Today, however, though I recognized the jeans she was wearing, I did not recognize the top. It was a pretty white blouse, and I thought I saw the slightest glint of jewelry around her neck.

Illyria looked up at me. "Spike," she said, again. She stared down at the fire again, and then seemed to remember something important. "How… have you been?" she asked.

I raised an eyebrow.

Illyria frowned. "Wesley has told me that this is an important thing to ask when one sees someone they have not seen in some time."

"Oh," I said. I hadn't known Wesley was coming to see her. As far as I knew, now that he had a store to run and slaves to drive, Wes was making every excuse to avoid Illyria like the plague.

Illyria seemed to sense my thought train. "I had come to his shop. He sold me a book. He said it might give me something to do."

I followed her eyes and saw, sitting on the counter, _Entertaining_ by Martha Stewart. A Martha Stewart cookbook. I'd known Wesley's feelings toward Illyria were decidedly mixed, but I hadn't known that he occasionally wanted her dead. I looked at Illyria. "And you'd never cooked before?"

"No."

"Yeah, you know what," I said, moving toward her. "I'm not even gonna ask about the fire, that happens to all of us. I'm just gonna turn these burners off-" and I did- "And put this fire out-" I stamped it out- "And I'm gonna sit you down on this chair-" I dragged it from its place by the wall- "And we're going to talk about what exactly you were doing."

She frowned yet again. "In a few weeks it will be exactly a year since my resurrection."

Ah, I thought. Maybe that's why Wesley's getting cranky.

"It is Valentines day," she added. Oh dear, I thought. "I was attempting to make the Valentine's Day dinner, but it was… impractical."

I tried to smile. "Martha Stewart," I said. "Impractical. Similar, in a way."

"And the entire holiday," Illyria said. "I do not understand why the heart is the human symbol for affection. The heart has no control over the emotions of love or over any others. And these-" she picked up one of about ten perfectly cut pink construction paper hearts which littered the floor- "Do not even look like hearts."

I decided not to ask about all the cutouts. "I know," I said. "I know. It's just a holiday for overly romantic couples to go all gooshy and for stores to make a lot of money. Doesn't mean a thing."

Illyria stood, walked over to the kitchen, and picked up the cookbook. She gestured to the heart depicted on one of the pages. It was a sugar cookie with "I Love You" written in icing on it. "If one were to bake this, and give it to another individual, what could it possibly mean?"

I shrugged. "It's cute, it's a gesture of affection. It depends on the person who made it, it depends on the person who gets it. You didn't, um, make them, did you?" I asked, a little worried.

She frowned even more deeply. "They were the only things that came out right. I have never been so ineffective at any task, and they are ridiculous. I would be ashamed to give them to anyone."

"Just say it, Blue. Give them to Wesley," I told her. Part of me thought it funny, part of me thought it was a little sad.

"Wesley," she repeated, looking a little dazed.

I cleared my throat and considered my next words more carefully than I had to for a long time. "You really do like him, don't you?"

She considered for a moment. "I do."

I sighed. "Well then, get used to being embarrassed. You used to be a great ruler, but now you're not. And if you wanna win someone who isn't crazy about you, then you have to let go of the God King, okay? Wes likes you, you have to have known that since he saved your life way back when we were still at Wolfram and Hart. He likes a lot of things about you, the stuff that isn't like Fred. You can't keep going back to acting like her whenever you wanna tell him you like him. You have to buck up and let yourself get shut down. Sometimes, if you wanna make someone care about you have to get really pitiful, show how low you're willing to go to prove they mean more to you than you do. That means ditching a little dignity. So if you honestly made those cookies, it's a good start. The best I can think of."

Illyria was silent, for a long time. "Will this make him care for me?" she asked, quietly.

I swallowed. "More like the first step. You've got a long road ahead, Blue."

She stood, looking down at me. "And you will help me?" she asked. "You will help me on this road?"

I nodded. "I'll try."

A few minutes later she had put the cookies in a box and left for Wesley's, and I was calling him on the phone. He sounded pretty grouchy when he heard my voice on the other line. "Wes," I said, "Don't do what I think you're gonna do. I have something helpful to say, I swear."

I heard Wes sigh on the other end. "What do you have to say, Spike?"

I made my voice sound as bright and cheerful as I could. Might make him feel better, might just annoy him. Recovering from my moment of sincerity, I decided both would be fine. "I wanted to say that Illyria's going over to your store, and I wanted to ask you to be nice."

"Spike, if you've gotten Illyria involved in anything to do with small, exploding objects I swear I'll-"

"No! No, I didn't! I am over that phase. I'm trying out a new hobby."

"And that is?"

I smiled slightly to myself, pulled the couch away from the wall, and sat down on it. "Helping a friend."

Wes hung up. I guess he didn't believe me, but I didn't mind. As I hung up the phone and set it down, I felt happier that usual.

I thought for moment about what I was going to do tomorrow. And it hit me. I could do this, I thought to myself, maybe full time. Sure, it isn't half as grand as all of that world saving, but those two really deserve some happiness. Or at least something which closely resembles happiness. Hmm. Wes and Illyria. My new project. My only project as a matter of fact, and deserving of my full attention. I really think I could do this.

And it is exactly what I _am_ doing.

True, I'd told Illyria from the beginning that she didn't have much chance with Wes (in fact, I believe snowflakes and hell were mentioned), but you know what? If the God-King of the Primordium can make sugar cookies shaped like hearts then maybe the snowflake's got more guts than we give her credit for. Hey, maybe somehow, she'll do all right.

**Note: **Well, there you go. If anyone has a situation they would like Illyria and Wes put under in Spike's efforts to get them together, I am totally open to suggestions. They make me work.


End file.
